Crossroads
by ForeheadGoggles
Summary: "Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear, not absence of fear."
1. A Living Nightmare

"He panted heavily, trying his best to keep himself from screaming. The medicine cabinet had been overturned and lay collapsed on the floor. He reached through the broken glass door and grabbed all the sedatives he could find."

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><p><em>Crushing. Crushing everything, dragging the oxygen from his lungs, sand flying into his eyes, blind, blind, the light, where was the <em>light_? His hands are burning, lantern oil and shattered glass sending him stumbling into the wall, gasping and clutching at the splintered remains of the candle. There's nothing he can do, he's..._

_"Don't say it Daniel."_

_His own voice is agonizingly loud in the silence, and he can feel his hands knotting in his matted hair, trying to pull the ringing from his ears. He gropes forward blindly, the cascade of rocks still unsteady and rolling, and he trips over them, crashing into the boulders face-first, gritty tears streaking down his chin._

_"_Help..._" he croaks, hoarse and desperate. "_Please_..."_

_He grips the closest rock with cracked nails, fingers slipping as it tumbles from his grasp, pinning his hand beneath it. Something _cracks_, mirrored a hundred times in the shifting rubble and he chokes on a scream, pain, terror, frustration, weakened flailing, scrabbling at the rocks. He's running out of air and, panicked, kicks at the stone, dislodging it and sending creaking movement to the cavern ceiling. The creaking begins to groan, and his eyes widen impossibly, straining to see the rocks crashing towards him. He presses into the sandstone, closer, closer, tasting salt, but not close enough, the rocks are closing in, too fast, too heavy, he's sobbing as the cavern collapses around him, swift and painful and dark._

_A stalactite has come loose, breaking through the flying debris and burying itself between his ribs. Thick black blood pools in his throat, and he can't breathe, much less scream, and this is it, he's drowning and bleeding and half-mad with fear..._

His eyes fly open and he gasps for breath, blankets wrapped around his legs, arm pinned under his back, broken glass scattered across the floor. He kicks out desperately, only tangling himself further, arm cradled to his heaving chest. He can still taste his own blood on his tongue and he crawls forward, unable to keep from whining as the splinters of glass slide into his palms.

He fumbles with the cabinet latch, metal clicking worthlessly against his fingernails. Vision warping, he pushes past the wooden frame, thoughts entirely reflex in his fading consciousness. All he can focus on is bitter, opium-scented _relief_, choking down too much laudanum and wishing for silence.

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><p>Hello everyone. I've recently finished playing Amnesia, and found the loading screen quotes to be particularly interesting and inspiring. Each chapter in this story is going to be an unconnected short story based around one of the quotes. However, I'm really going to need some help on this one. If anyone has a particular quote they would like to see me use, don't be shy! I'm really aiming to have this be an entirely audience-driven fic. Also, if you have an idea of a story behind a quote, I may be able to incorporate that as well. My specialty is horrorangst, but I'm willing to try new things as well. Paint the suggestions, cut the quotes, cut the screens, watch the ideas spill, _LET IT COME!_


	2. Iron Maiden

"Something died inside of him that day. Watching that man slip away was more than his mind was willing to handle."

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><p><em>Thunk.<em>

The sound of iron into oak and flesh. Screaming, deep and hoarse, echoes across the Choir. Blood is already pooling around your boots, too quick, too humane? Is it enough?

_Creak._

A strangled gasp for air.

_Slam._

Screaming again, higher now, pride is shredding, good, good...

_Creak._

Pleading in a foreign, guttural tongue.

Wipe the crimson-tinged spittle from your cheek.

_Slam._

Nothing more than a keening whimper. Fading...? It's not enough, not yet, you _need_ this man, you need him to bleed and burn and scream in your place, let the nightmares devour his still-beating heart, _LET HIM DIE!_

_Creak. Slam. Creak. Slam. Creak. Slam. Slam. SLAM._

You dare not...

Cannot...

Will not...

Stop.

Ears filled with cotton, arms trembling with exhaustion, tongue dry and lolling, ignore it, ignore it, ignore it, it doesn't matter until you can no longer stay on your feet. Your knees hit the flagstones with a splash, and you slump forward against the comfort of ironbound wood. Hands fumble through pockets, closing around a near-empty bottle. Your tongue flicks out to catch the few remaining drops, habit, not need, but it's a moment of peace.

Gradually, you become aware of the sweat drying on your neck, the blisters on your palms, the rotting-copper scent of death, the limp hand dangling, half detached, from between the doors of the Iron Maiden.

Blood rolls from the fingertips and down your forehead, broken nails brushing your scalp and you arch up into the palm, comforted by the warmth in your hair.

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><p>Once more, if anyone has a particular loading screen quote they would like to see me use, please suggest one! I would be more than happy to give it a whirl. Paint the suggestions, cut the quotes, cut the screens, watch the ideas spill, <em>LET IT COME!<em>


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